and surges the traffic of a characteristic middle-West town. Half-way up
the hill, where the few aristocrats of the place formerly lived in
almost royal luxuriance and seclusion, a busy sewing-machine factory has
forced its way, and with its numerous chimneys and stacks literally
smoked the occupants out; at their very gates it sits like the commander
of a besieging army, and about it cluster the cottages of the workmen,
in military regularity. Little and neat and trim, they flock there like
the commander's obedient host, and such they are, for the sight of them
offends the eyes of wealth. So, what with the smoke, and what with the
proximity of the poorer classes, wealth capitulates, evacuates, and,
with robes discreetly held aside, passes by to another quarter, and a
new district is born where poverty dare not penetrate. Seated on a hill,
where, as is their inclination, they may look down, literally and
figuratively, upon the hurrying town, they are complacent again, and
the new-comers to the town, the new-rich magnates and the half-rich
strugglers who would be counted on the higher level, move up and swell
their numbers at Dexter View.

Amid all this change, two alone of those we know remain unaltered and
unalterable, true to their traditions. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Martin, the
two ancient gossips, still live side by side, spying and commenting on
all that falls within their ken, much as they did on that day when
'Liphalet Hodges took Fred Brent for his first drive behind old Bess.
Their windows still open out in the same old way, whence they can watch
the happenings of the street. If there has been any change in them at
all, it is that they have grown more absorbed and more keen in following
and dissecting their neighbours' affairs.

It is to these two worthies, then, that we wish to reintroduce the
reader on an early autumn evening some three months after the events
narrated in the last chapter.

Mrs. Martin went to her back fence, which was the nearest point of
communication between her and her neighbour. "Mis' Smith," she called,
and her confederate came hurrying to the door, thimble on and a bit of
sewing clutched precariously in her apron, just as she had caught it up
when the significant call brought her to the back door.

"Oh, you 're busy as usual, I see," said Mrs. Martin.

"It ain't nothin' partic'ler, only a bit o' bastin' that I was doin'."

"You ain't a-workin' on the machine, then, so you might bring